


ain't this the life

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fingerfucking, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Riding, Together They Fight Crime, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, kustard - Freeform, offscreen established fellcest, red is just an asshole, sans is an uptight asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Red leans hard on each word: "I can get you off."





	ain't this the life

“I don't get you."

Red is the universe's revenge for all the times Sans ever used his shortcuts to scare people. If Sans had skin, he'd jolt out of it. As it is, he fumbles his cigarette. Red laughs from where he just popped up at Sans's elbow and kicks the smoldering cigarette away from Sans's slipper. There used to be days that Red would've picked the cigarette back up and finished it, filthy alley or no. Hell, there were days _Sans_ would pick it up and finish it.

Caring enough to bother lighting a new cigarette. Happy ever after.

"Nobody gets me." Sans gives Red fingerguns. "I'm like the wind."

Red shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the alley wall. Rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay, you're a real Tom Servo."

Having Red and Edge around is a violent existential mindfuck on the bad days and a neverending source of irritation and worry on the good ones, but it's nice to have somebody around who appreciates his jokes. Sans grins at Red sidelong and is about to launch into an explanation of why Red is more like TV's Frank when Red continues, "Didn't mean to rattle you."

The truth is that if Sans wasn't already on edge, Sans wouldn't have twitched when Red turned up. (On Edge. Ha. That's more Red's deal.) Grillby's is safe, his home away from home, and yet the normal amount of weekday night chaos is chewing on his raw nerves. He'd come outside to get some space. Even with the noise muffled by a wall, Sans wants to crawl out of his nonexistent skin.

"What, no joke?" Red asks. "You're off your game tonight, buddy."

"Yeah, that was a real boner." Sans digs around in his pockets for the pack of cigarettes. He can feel Red looking at him. 

"Weak," is Red's verdict. "Guess your bro's out tonight."

"Yep. Cooking lesson." When Red snorts, derisive, Sans happens to accidentally elbow him in the side while he pulls his cigarettes out. "Oops."

"He's gonna notice the smoke and shit a kitten," Red says. "Maybe I could make 'em disappear for you."

"Eh. He'll think it's because he and Undyne set something on fire." Statistics are on Sans's side as to whether their cooking requires a fire extinguisher. "There's this thing called a job. Get one and you can buy your own smokes."

"I got a job."

"Sucking Edge's dick isn't a job."

Red barks out a laugh and shoves Sans's shoulder. "Shit, nobody's got to pay me for that. That's for fun."

"Yeah. Incest. It's the best." It's unnecessarily difficult to get the last cigarette out of the pack, like his fingers are one of those vending machine claws that he's operating from behind a panel of glass. 

"Thought we had this fight already," Red says. "Didn't we have this fight already?

That argument had been over quickly, mostly because when Sans told Red to stop taking advantage of Edge or he was going to answer to Sans (there is a goddamn _limit_ to Sans's apathy), Red was too busy laughing hysterically to fight. Then Edge had gotten involved, all offended pride and yelling, which dragged Papyrus in from the other side of the house to listen. Papyrus was surprisingly nonchalant about the whole thing. Told Sans he was sorry, to never doubt that Papyrus loved him very much in a platonic way, but he just wasn't interested in having sex with him. Or anyone. Then Sans had been too busy trying to figure out if he could flash-burn the inside of his skull or somehow convince the kid to reset to that morning, before he had ever had to hear Papyrus use the word 'sex.'

Sans shrugs. He's given up on fighting about it. That doesn't mean he's above passive-aggressive digs. Passive-aggressive digs are his default response to things that freak him out and he can't change.

"That's it? Nothing else to say?" Red pushes himself off the wall and stands in front of Sans. Studies his face, then whistles. "You look like shit."

Sans puts a hand over his heart. "Hey, words hurt."

Red shifts his weight uncomfortably, glancing around the alley in case somebody hears him not being a dick. He's about as good with sincerity as Sans. "Seriously, asshole. If you keel over, your brother would cry or something."

"I'm fine."

When Sans goes to light his cigarette, his hand's shaking too bad to get the flame to catch. He flicks the lighter off, shakes out his wrist and tries again. A little steadier, but not much. He gives Red an unrepentant grin.

Red heaves a sigh and pulls out his own lighter. Predictably, it looks like a prop from the set of a biker grindhouse movie. "C'mere, you sad fucking sack."

"You're a peach." Sans tries to hand the cigarette over. "Funny meeting you in a pit like this, huh?"

Red takes him by the wrist. His grip isn't hard, not ungentle, but Sans freezes up. He can't quite control the expression on his face. He locks it back down a second later, makes himself relax and grin like everything's hilarious, but Red’s raised brow he caught it.

Smoothly, Red lights the cigarette and plucks it from between Sans's numb fingers. Before Sans can get any farther than "you dick," Red takes a drag for himself. Smoke spills from his eyesockets and between his teeth. He doesn't let go of Sans's wrist. Red's eyelights burn the same color as the cherry at the end of the cigarette.

Sans glances away from Red's steady, half-lidded stare. "Y'know, most people just ask to bum a cigarette."

Shrugging, Red says, "Tastes better when you steal it. What's wrong with you?"

"I'm holding hands with this guy. I think we might be going steady." 

"You should be so lucky, bitch."

"So you wanted me to give you a hand." Sans flexes his fingers. Red's grip isn't tight. "Just pop it right off at the wrist."

"Aw, that ain't a wrist I'm willing to take with you," Red says. Sans snickers, although it isn't as fun when Papyrus or Edge aren't around to act mortally offended. "You're awful fragile."

"Funny what happens when you don't kill anybody.”

"Yeah, Mr. High and Mighty, you end up a tired wreck who gets sick all the time." With unexpected politeness, Red doesn't exhale smoke in Sans's face. His eyes scan Sans’s expression with a creepiness that makes Sans pity anybody who’s ever met either of them. Then Red grins with a familiar kind of bitterness. “Heh. Depression’s a bitch.”

The great thing about Red is that, like Sans, he doesn't care about 95% of the universe. He makes up for it by caring a whole fucking lot about the rest of it, in his own gruff, violent way. He's the kind of guy that you want around when there's dust flying. He'd rip someone's soul out to protect Papyrus and Frisk. He'd rip his own soul out for Edge. 

The obnoxious thing about Red is that somehow Sans landed in the 5%. It's not like Sans gave him a reason.

Sans shrugs. “Been worse.”

Tapping the ash off, Red says, “And you didn’t bother talking to Papyrus.”

"Right now, I'm talking to an asshole," Sans says. "Who's buying me a new pack of smokes."

It’s Red’s turn to shrug. He's got no illusions about being an asshole. He still doesn't let go of Sans's wrist. "These things'll kill you. I'm taking that bullet for you, buddy. Y’know what’d make you feel better?”

Jeez, one tiny bit of ‘monsters go home’ graffiti on the door and Red never lets it go. “I’m not killing my neighbors.”

“I know you ain’t.”

“You and Edge aren’t killing my neighbors either.”

“Spoilsport.” Red takes another drag. “Nah. I mean when's the last time you got laid?"

It takes a second for that last part to penetrate. (Heh.) Sans covers his face with his free hand. "Nope. No. We're not having this conversation."

Red hisses sympathetically. "That long, huh?"

"It hasn't been _that_ \--" Yeah, that's not gonna help. Sans tries again. "Everything is a-okay in that, uh, area. Thanks for your concern."

"Great. So when did you squeegee the wild dolphin?" Sans can't not laugh, which is only encouraging Red. He tugs at Sans's arm like a kid trying to get attention. "Hey, if you can't tell your evil twin about your sexploits, who can you tell?"

"Sexploits," Sans repeats flatly.

"All right, so it's probably sad vanilla sex with the lights off. I wasn't gonna bring it up."

"That's sweet of you," Sans says in the same flat voice. Maybe if he plays dead, Red will go away.

No dice. "I'm a goddamn angel. So c'mon, talk to daddy. You in a dry spell? Been a couple months?" Red leans closer so he can peer through Sans's fingers. "Shit. Six months? Eight months?"

The worst thing about Red, among a long list of worst things about Red, is that he's got Sans's knack for reading faces. Red's an open book to Sans too, but Sans having any sense of shame is a significant handicap in the eternal liar's poker game that is their lives.

Sans gives up and drops his hand. "If I tell you, will you never call yourself daddy again? Because I got to tell you, that's disturbing."

"Cross my heart," Red lies. There's a malicious glint in his eyes that says he's going to save that ammunition for the worst possible time, like dinner with Papyrus. Unfortunately, Red seems perfectly willing to stand here and keep guessing until he figures it out.

"Since Gaster." It's strange to say the name out loud after all these years, like tempting fate. When Red stares at him like he just said he's been beating himself with barbed wire when nobody's looking, Sans says, knowing it sounds defensive, "It's not that big a deal."

"Dude," Red says. "That's like six years."

"Wow, that PhD came in handy. You can do math." Sans raises his brows. "Murder and incest are no big deal but some celibacy freaks you out?"

Sans is okay with Red laughing in his face. Braced for it. Instead, Red has to go and say, thoughtful, "You miss it?"

The last couple months, as the terrified exhaustion of the resets gave way to something like tentative hope, Sans has been waking up with his magic already heavy and hot in his pelvis. It feels too complicated. He takes a lot of cold showers.

Heat floods Sans's face. "I dunno. Sometimes. It doesn't matter."

"Oh, that old joke." Red skims his thumb across the sensitive inside of Sans's ulna. It could just be a thoughtless gesture. "I get twitchy if I don't get off for a few weeks. No wonder you're wound so tight."

"What, me? I'm a laid back, easy going guy." Sans shifts his wrist, trying to remind Red that he's still holding it. That he can let go anytime now. "If I get any more relaxed, I'm gonna fall down."

"You're full of shit. You're all strung out. Lucky for you, I'm a real standup guy who can help you out, if you want."

Sans stares at him. Red stares back. Warily, Sans says, "What are we talking about here?"

"You're not that stupid." Red leans hard on each word. "I can get you off."

Glancing away, knowing that there's sweat running down his face, Sans drawls, "Maybe just rub your dick on a mirror and get over it, you freaking narcissist."

"Like you never thought about it.”

(Junior year of college, laying on the floor of Alphys's apartment, both of them way too high on pot brownies that were more pot than brownie. The wasted quantum physicist's philosophical debate: would you smooch a clone? Alphys saying that she hated herself too much to even want to be in the same room with her clone. Sans saying, "only if they were the evil one.")

Red's thought about it.

Sans swallows. "Thought you and Edge had a thing."

"Oh, we do." Red's smirking. Sans can hear it in his voice. "That doesn't change. He said he's cool with it."

Edge follows Sans around glaring at him, growling, looming and trying to tell him what to do. Sans tells him to put on real pants and tries to feed him burgers. Edge is hilarious.

Sans doesn't ask how that topic even came up. He doesn't want to know if he's part of their freaky roleplay or whatever. "He's cool, yeah, but he's not exactly a let-it-go kind of guy. Got no chill, you could say."

"He likes you," Red says, like that's somehow obvious. "You've got a mean streak. You're a biter."

Sans glances at the collar around Red's neck. "That's your thing."

"Deep down, we ain't that different." Before Sans can decide if it's worth arguing, Red shrugs it off. "Forget it. Not the point. Listen, don't make it complicated. It's not a marriage proposal. We both get our dicks wet."

"And you hold it over my head for the rest of our lives," Sans says.

"Hey." Red looks genuinely affronted. "I got standards. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, y'know?"

Sans looks at his expression. Red means it. It's about as close to altruism as Red gets. Putting the pity in pity fuck.

Red's fingers around his wrist... it's the longest anybody's touched Sans in years.

Sans takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Says, "Yeah, okay."

Red's grin is bright and wolfish. "Yeah?"

Sans shrugs. His soul is beating too fast, like Red could see it through two layers of shirt and a hoodie. "Why not? Fuck it."

"Oh, I'm gonna," Red says. The scratch of his voice hits Sans at the base of his spine, like Red has his fingers wrapped there. He flicks the neglected cigarette away. "Let's--"

And they're not in the alley. 

They're in Red's living room. It looks enough like Sans's living room, the furniture in the same places, that Sans has a moment of wobbly disorientation. The only difference is that there's no sock on the floor. Edge doesn't tolerate Red's bullshit.

"-- take this somewhere more private," Red finishes smugly.

Sans deliberately unclenches his fist. He hates getting dragged through someone else's shortcuts. They last just long enough for Sans's panicked brain to realize a) he's not driving and b) Red could let him go, leave him there in the endless lonely dark to wait for Gaster to find him. In his best calm, I-did-not-just-tense-so-hard-my-spine-popped voice, Sans says, "Didn't even give me enough time to call shotgun."

Red widens his eyes. "What, you wanted to bang in an alley? You kinky fucker. Here I was, planning to lay you down in a bed of roses. Light some candles. Play some Barry White. Soothe your skittish virgin nerves."

"Be gentle with me, senpai," Sans says, deadpan. "My skittish virgin nerves are about to smother you with a couch cushion."

Red lets go of his wrist, finally. The bone feels cold and strange without his hand around it. Sans doesn't rub at it, just watches Red fling himself onto the couch.

"After six years, I might as well be popping your cherry," Red says. He sounds more pleased by that than annoyed.

"Dude, people sit on that couch. _Papyrus_ sits on that couch."

"Your brother doesn't sit anywhere longer than five seconds," Red says. "I've timed it. C'mon, it's not like the boss hasn't nailed me on every flat surface in this joint."

"Oh, wow, in that case." Sans sits on the couch beside Red. It molds to him like the one at home, threatening to pull him into an inescapable gravity well. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "I feel better. I'm already contaminated with your ass sweat."

"And jizz," Red says helpfully. Grabbing the front of Sans's hoodie, he drags him closer. "This is fucking tragic. Okay, baby steps. Step one: get on my lap."

"Uh, how's about no."

"It's easier on everybody's neck," Red says. "And I'm bigger than you. I don't want to lay on you and crack a rib or something."

Of course Red has to bring _that_ up. It's not even noticeable. Stupid 5 HP. Grumbling, Sans straddles his lap. It leaves his legs wide open. He slaps his hands on Red's shoulders with unnecessary force and says sweetly, "Better?"

"You're so cranky," Red says. One of his hands settles low on Sans's spine, where the hoodie rides up. He rubs his thumb over the top of the iliac crest. Sans doesn't think he changes expression, but Red's gaze goes hooded and dark. "There you go. You can touch me if you wanna."

"Choking you sounds great." 

"Heh. That's advanced stuff, buddy."

Sans unzips Red's hoodie to the sternum, shoves the fabric apart. He runs his fingers over the pale, scratched bones. It's better than it used to be before six months with regular food and without fighting. Red's healing. Good. He glances at Red's face, checking if it's still okay, then leans in to drag his tongue over his clavicle.

"Yeah," Red sighs, leaning his head back against the couch. His other hand grips the back of Sans's neck. His bones are warm, unknotting some tension cramped in Sans's spine. "You're good with your mouth."

Yeah, Sans has heard that before. It’s kind of his favorite. If Red’ll be good with letting Sans spend a while sucking him off, Sans really won’t be mad about it. Still, for the principle of the thing, Sans says, “Why am I going all the work here?”

"You in a hurry?" Red's fingers slip under the waistband of his shorts. Finds the notches of his sacrum. Sans sucks in a breath, and Red asks, "Got somewhere to be?"

"Nah. I'm--" 

Red shifts under him, bringing their hips together. Sans bites him. Red groans, so deep that Sans feels it, and pets Sans's neck. "Fuck, that's it. Yeah."

Sans exhales. He means it to sound impatient, a little bored. It sounds like Red's winning. Jerkily, he unzips Red's jacket the rest of the way and gets his hands on Red's ribs. There are more scratches there, deeper, some little knots where the bone was cracked or broken. He bites down again, harder, and feels for the place where the knife would've carved Red open.

It's sensitive, or at least it is on Sans, even if the knife never cut there, even if there's no scar. When he finds it with his fingertips, then (with some bending) his tongue, Red curses and uses his grip on Sans's neck to drag his head up. He licks at Sans's closed teeth. Sans opens his mouth and Red kisses him like he's trying to drag his soul out.

Red's magic is formed. Sans can taste it. It's not a decision to grind down on Red's lap. It's thoughtless, automatic as getting out of the way of an attack, just his body taking over.

Red breaks off mauling him to growl, "I know it's been a while, dude, but you gotta gimme something to work with. I mean, so long as everything still works down there--"

"Fuck off," Sans says, like he didn't just wonder that himself. 

"Uh-huh." Red pulls his hand out of the back of Sans's shorts only to push it down the front, cupping Sans's pubic arch without any particular preamble. He grinds his palm flat against the symphysis, rougher than Sans would ever be with himself. It ought to be a turnoff. It feels amazing. "Come on. Give it up."

"Buddy, you watch too much shitty porn--" 

Red slips two fingers up inside the pelvic crest, stroking the inside. Sans shoves his face in Red's shoulder, not quite fast enough to muffle the noise he makes. His magic drops into place, forming a pussy around Red's fingers. 

"Holy shit," Red says, surprised, almost awed.

Too much, too fast. Red's fingers burn sweetly. Sans bites Red's hoodie, breathing raggedly.

"Shit," Red repeats, rougher. His fingers shift inside Sans as he moves to stroke his thumb over Sans's clit. "You didn't mean to do that."

Sans makes another tight, humiliating noise. He can't not press into Red's hand, riding it a little. All his intentions about keeping his cool are unraveling. It's taking most of his concentration not to just fuck himself on Red's fingers like he's in heat. 

Even through his shorts, Sans can hear the wet, embarrassing noise of Red's fingers sliding in and out of him. He can feel Red's hard dick against his ass. He's so close, too close, just from this.

"You're so quiet," Red says. He flexes his fingers a little, curling them so he can rub ruthlessly against the g-spot. "Just us chickens, buddy. You can make a little noise--"

His thumb grazes Sans's clit, that last spark, and Sans comes hard. Red's appreciative groan is louder than Sans's. Red stays on him, steady strokes to his clit dragging things out until Sans is wrung out and gasping humidly against Red's shoulder. There are actual tears in his eyes.

Red isn't stopping. Sans isn't telling him to stop. Instead he says unevenly, "You gonna put your dick in me or what?"

Red pauses for a second. "That what you want?"

"Eh. Might as well." It's not like he's planning to ever do this again. Besides, maybe it'll be easier if Red's distracted instead of just sitting here untouched and taking Sans apart.

Red snorts. "And here I figured you'd be the romantic." Removing his fingers with a little _schlick_ that makes Sans's face burn, Red gives his clit a last rub with his thumb and pulls his hands out of Sans's pants. "I'd tell you to get off, but--"

"Yeah, yeah." Sans climbs off Red's lap. His legs still feel wobbly. He redirects his gaze to a far wall; out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Red kicking his shorts off. That's... a lot of bare bone.

Then Red snaps the waistband of Sans's shorts. "Hey, pal, I can't exactly fuck you through these."

"Right. Yeah." Sans glances at Red, who's still wearing his hoodie. It's late for modesty to kick in, but he feels weird pulling his shorts off and letting them drop to the floor. One of his slippers already fell off when he was coming, so he loses the other one. "Uh. Okay."

Rolling his eyes, Red lays on his back on the couch. His dick is an exact match for Sans's own, aside from being as red as Red's eyelights or tongue. Sans knows that intellectually, but considering that he's going to be sitting on it, it looks bigger. As Sans watches, a bead of precome wells from the tip. He swallows. His mouth is watering.

Red curls his fingers around his dick. Grins. "Skittish virgin nerves?"

Stung, Sans scoffs and climbs on top of him. The motion spreads him open, cool air on his wet pussy. He pushes Red's hand out of the way and takes Red's dick in hand himself. The magic is hot and alive, practically thrumming against him. Red's eyes go half-lidded, a rumbling purr in his throat.

"What's the saying?" Sans says, lining Red's dick up to his cunt. "Oh, right. Go fuck yourself."

Red laughs, and it turns into a groan halfway through as Sans starts to slide down on him. Even with the fingering and the orgasm, it's a tight fit. Sans hesitates, and Red grabs him by the hips and pulls him down onto his cock. Sans moans, the sound loud in the room, then sets his teeth. 

It doesn't help. Red doesn't give him a second, raising Sans's hips and driving up into him again. Then again. A little sweat runs down Red's brow.

Red's stare is avid, devouring. Sans realizes he made a critical miscalculation somewhere, because positioned like this, he can't cover his face. Red isn't letting go of him.

He leans forward, bracing himself on Red's ribs. The new angle is better; for a second, he forgets exactly what he was planning. His eyes snap shut. He tries to make his face go blank, even knowing that Red can read a microexpression as easily as a real one. All that'll tell Red is trying he's trying and failing to keep his cool.

He slides his hand up inside Red's ribs and digs his fingers hard into the inside of Red's sternum. Red makes a low, filthy noise like Sans is the one fucking him. Red's grip falters, and Sans grinds down onto him hard enough to make his pelvis ache.

"Yeah," Red sighs. "Better when it hurts a little, right?"

Sans’s blush must burn like a signal fire. He grips Red's sternum between finger and thumb, pressing hard. It has to hurt. It should horrify him, that he's hurting Red on purpose, but he wants to wring more of those sounds out of Red. To make Red feel like he feels, like an exposed nerve. Red lets out a shuddering, explosive breath and Sans says, "I'm not like you."

"Nooo," Red says, mocking. "Not the _real_ Sans. You've got everything under control, ain't that right? You never think about somebody holding you down and making you take it--"

Sans raises himself up on Red's cock and drops back down. It lights him up inside, but it's not as sweet as wiping that expression off Red's face. Red chokes.

"We gonna talk all night?" Sans says.

He rides Red in jerky, uneven bounces. Red groans, full-throated and shameless. "Fuck. Yeah, that's right. Take what you need."

"Do you ever shut up?" Sans hisses, burning hotter.

Instead of answering, Red shoves his hand between their bodies and finds Sans's clit. He holds his fingers steady, letting Sans rub off on them with each thrust. It's messy and rough. Sans squeezes his eyes shut tighter, panting. He can feel the sweat running down his face. He gets a sudden flashbulb mental image of how he must look and the shame twists in his gut with something hotter.

He feels Red shift under him just a second before Red's fingers curl around his throat, a collar of bone. There's no pressure behind it. Sans's eyes shoot open. He's looking in Red's eyes when he comes. It's only the strength leaving his arms that makes him lean into Red's restraining hand.

Red makes a guttural sound. He fucks up into Sans several more times and then locks up. It turns out that for all his talk, Red is silent when he comes. Sans can feel it inside. Then Red drops back onto the couch, shuddering and limp. His hand falls away from Sans's throat.

There's a stretch of silence, punctuated only by both of them breathing. The sweat is drying on Sans's bones. He can still feel his pussy fluttering, the last spasms of it making Red twitch and sigh.

"Wow," Red says finally, dragging a hand over his face. He grins tiredly. "You needed that pretty bad."

Something like sense comes flooding back. Sans gets up, grimacing as Red's softening dick slips out of him. Everything aches. Instantly, there's come running down his femurs and onto the couch.

"Welp," Sans says, and grabs his shorts off the floor. His grin is a little manic. "Thanks for, uh, that. I gotta go."

Red doesn't move, brows rising. "Figured you'd want to stick around and cuddle."

Sans pulls on his pants. They're wet inside, sticking to his legs. Which is fine, considering that he's still dripping Red's come. "You'll get over it."

"Heh." Red scratches his ribs. "Seriously, dude. You're freaking out."

"Then I guess I'll get over it too."

"Or," Red says, "you could come over here and sit your ass down for a couple minutes."

"I'm fine," Sans says, sharper than he means to be. Red's brows get a little higher, although he still seems more amused than anything. Sans sighs. "Seriously. Thanks. It was great. I just want to go home and shower before Papyrus gets home."

"Sure. Don’t want you to have to explain the birds and the bees to your grown-ass brother." Red gives Sans fingerguns and a wink. He's got blue fluid still smeared on his fingers. "Hey. Next time, can I eat you out?"

"Yeah, no, this is never happening again," Sans says.

Red is still laughing when Sans takes a shortcut and escapes.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! my nsfw tumblr is over at bonerpuns.tumblr.com if y'all ever want to say hi.


End file.
